Gentle priests in yellow tabards
sort out the waste. I’m a split
plastic garden pot – waiting
nervously for them to decide my fate.
A Gentle Priest points me
to my plot. Thank goodness,
I’m consigned to a Skip for recycling.
All around, I hear the confluence
of nerves and sadness, making new friends,
listening to tales and future plans.
Old-timers like me just nod and smile.
Last time I was a set of clothes-pegs
in the image of God hung up on the line.
I’ll wait to see what happens to me next.
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